Not This Time
by Halcris
Summary: Doyle has an enemy he knows nothing about, - someone he has never met !


**Not This Time**.

A small door opened in the great wooden portals of Wandsworth prison, and a man stepped out. A grey-haired, middle-aged man, clutching a brown paper parcel. Taking a few steps forward, Joe Corrigan glanced around, surveying the world he hadn't set eyes on for more than fifteen years.

There was no-one to meet him. How could there be ? He'd never known his father, his mother had died about three years ago, and his much younger brother was in a high-security prison somewhere.

And he had nowhere to go. The block of flats where he'd grown up, the only home he'd ever known, was now derelict, and due to be pulled down soon, to make way for new development.

The social workers visiting soon-to-be released men had given him names, addresses and phone numbers of people who might help him, but he doubted whether he'd use any of them. He'd look after himself, he thought, he always had done so, and would not be beholden to any do-gooders.

Besides, he had an aim in his mind that he knew they would not have approved of. The only person he had ever cared for was his mother. He knew he'd made her unhappy by being in prison so often, but then she'd had Benny, and had devoted her life to him. He hadn't deserved it, the spoilt little brat, but it had given her something to live for. When Benny had been arrested and sent to prison too, it had finally broken her heart, and she had died alone soon after.

He didn't care in the slightest about Benny, but he was going to find the man who'd so upset his mother, and take his revenge.

His first task would be to find him. The only thing he knew was the name of the policeman who had arrested Benny. He could hardly walk into a police-station and ask about him, could he ? With his record, he'd have to be more subtle.

He'd met men in prison. He wouldn't call them friends – he didn't make friends. But some of them were London men, several of whom had been released before him. If he could make contact with any of them again, they might well help him in his quest.

Bodie and Doyle tapped on Cowley's office door and entered. They had come to see what their orders for the day might be. Their boss was standing by his desk, looking through the pile of papers his secretary had deposited there for his attention. He glanced down one of them, then handed it to Doyle

"This might interest you," he said. "The list of prisoners released in the last month. Any name there that might suggest someone we should keep an eye on ?"

So many times Doyle's memory for people he had encountered in his police days, had given them useful leads.

Doyle read down the list. He'd almost reached the bottom of it, before a name caught his eye.

"Corrigan," he said, "But it's not the one I knew. That was Benny Corrigan. It was just before I came here. He was a nasty, violent young thug. His gang were into everything. Drugs, of course, and the protection racket, intimidation, and gang-land murders."

"Any connection ?," queried Cowley.

"Not that I know of," replied Doyle. "As I remember, there was only Benny and an elderly mother. What a commotion she raised when I arrested him," he reminisced. "Crying and shouting, railing at me for taking away her boy, her 'innocent angel'. He was far from that ! But all the gang got heavy sentences, so he's still 'inside' somewhere."

He handed the list back to Cowley. "Nothing that jumps out this time, sir," he said, almost apologetically.

Cowley just nodded, added the list to the pile he'd looked at, and went on to discuss with them a current case. That led to them being given a list of people they needed to talk to, so they left to get on with the task.

Doyle followed after Bodie's tall figure, as they left the shop of the nasty little fence they had been talking to, and made their way back through the busy market towards where they had parked their car. It was very crowded, and Doyle smiled to himself as he let Bodie's size and weight forge a path for them. He had his uses !

Suddenly there was a tug at his sleeve. He glanced to his left, and recognised the nervous little man who was trying to attract his attention.

"I need a word, Mr. D," the man whispered. "Round the corner." Doyle nodded and moved a little faster to catch up with Bodie, the little man trailing after him. As they turned the corner, he put out an arm to detain his partner, who turned back and followed, as Doyle moved into the doorway where the little man had scuttled. It was quiet and secluded in this road, away from the noise and bustle of the market.

"Well, Smut, what is it ?," asked Doyle. "Is it important ?"

"I think so," replied the nervous little man. He was a very useful snout for Doyle, and often brought them useful bits of gossip.

"I thought you ought to know, there's been a man going round asking about you," he said.

"Did you get his name ?," queried Doyle.

"He never gives a name," replied Smut, "but he's trying very hard to find where you live.

"You didn't tell him anything, did you ?," demanded Bodie, who had been listening to all this.

"Of course not !," said Smut indignantly. "I wouldn't do that. But there are those who might," he added.

Doyle nodded. He trusted Smut, but not some others.

"He didn't seem very friendly, Mr. D," went on Smut. "I thought you ought to know."

"Yes, thanks for that," said Doyle. "I'll keep it in mind, Smut. And if you hear any more, you'll let me know, won't you ?."

He slipped some money into the little man's eager hand. He quickly pocketed it and scuttled away, back into the market.

A few days later, Bodie and Doyle were involved in a drugs raid on a seedy run-down pub. The tip-off had come from C.I.5, but the police and the drugs squad had been involved. It was a very successful effort, picking up a large quantity of drugs and several nasty dealers and pushers. As these were being carted away by the police, Bodie and Doyle were standing by Doyle's car, talking to a member of the drugs squad that they knew.

Suddenly, Bodie, who was facing Doyle, put a restraining hand on his arm. "Ray," he said urgently, "Don't turn round too quick, but behind you and over to the right, - a black four-by-four. The man standing behind it seems to be taking an inordinate interest in watching you."

Doyle gave a very slight nod to indicate he had got that, and, still talking to their friend, began to ease his position round a bit. Then he turned naturally, and looked in the direction Bodie had indicated. He only caught a quick glimpse, before the man, realizing he'd been spotted, darted behind the big vehicle, and then sped away down a side street. Pursuit would have been useless, the man had too much of a head start, and would have quickly disappeared into the mid-day rush-hour crowds.

Doyle turned back to Bodie. "I didn't recognize him," he said, "but I only got a glimpse. Would you know him if you saw him again ?."

"Might do," replied Bodie, in a rather doubtful tone, "but he was just an ordinary kind of chap."

They returned to their car, and went back to base to put in their report. Bodie was driving. Doyle sat beside him, unnaturally quiet, obviously thinking hard. At last he made a comment.

"It looks as if what Smut said is true, don't you think ? Someone is trying to find me. I wonder why ?."

Corrigan wandered idly along the road. He was in a very disgruntled mood. He had taken advantage of some of the names and numbers he'd been given, so he now had a place in a hostel. They'd also found him a small part-time job, just sweeping up in the fruit and vegetable market. It didn't pay much, but at least he was able to eat properly.

He had had some success in his search too. He'd found some of the men he'd been looking for, and through them had been able to find out quite a bit about his quarry. He'd learned that he was no longer with the police, but had joined some organization called C.I.5. Although they didn't know why he wanted to find this man, a couple of them had hinted to him that it would be unwise to tangle with this group. But Corrigan had not been out long enough to learn much about them, so he tended to ignore their advice. He had some hints as to where the man was often to be found, though no-one could give him an exact address.

His problem now was, what was he going to do about it ?

He couldn't openly attack him, and risk getting caught in the act. Life in the outside world wasn't exactly fun, but he wasn't going back inside if he could help it. No, it must be something that couldn't be traced back to him.

Then he became more aware of his surroundings. He was surprised to find that without any conscious choice from him, his wandering feet had taken him back to his old home. He was back where he had lived as a child, where his mother and little brother had lived while he was away, and where his mother had died soon after Benny had gone to prison.

He gazed morosely at the block of flats, now empty and derelict. The whole area was fenced off with high wire fencing, and notices saying 'KEEP OUT'. He'd heard that the whole section, which included several similar blocks, was due for demolition in the near future. Workmen were busy in there now, laying charges in all the basements, ready for the detonation which would bring each building down in a heap of rubble.

Then it would all be gone, - his last memories.!

As he stared, and let the bitter reminiscences flow, a sudden idea came into his head. He let it grow, a mad idea maybe, but it might be managed. And if it worked, he thought gleefully to himself, there would be no way any blame or suspicion would come his way. Buoyed up with excitement, he took one last look, then hurried away to start thinking up a plan to achieve his aim.

The excitement of planning had given Corrigan a new lease of life. One of the first things he did was to go round the local charity shops till he found what he wanted, a suitable pair of gloves. His prints were on police records, and there was no way, whatever he decided to do, that he was going to leave any of those for them to find.

He still had not worked out how to catch his intended victim. It would not be easy. He'd now learned a little more about C.I.5, and knew that the men in it were well able to take care of themselves.

It would have to be some sort of trick. !

The man he'd talked to in the pub the night before last, one of the previous inmates of the prison he'd remembered, had given him some useful bits of information. He'd passed on a description of a little man called Smut, who was an informant for Doyle. Now, if he could find him, he could lean on him a bit, and make him help him make contact. But he'd looked for him all day yesterday and hadn't found any trace of him anywhere.

The other bit of information, he was told, was not common knowledge. The man was reticent about revealing it, and how he had come by it, as it was the location of one of the main offices used by C.I.5. He'd told Corrigan where it was. After his morning's work, Corrigan had made his way there, found a concealed vantage point, and had sat there all afternoon, watching the cars going in and out, and parking in the adjoining yard.

His patience had been rewarded. Late afternoon he had seen the man he was after drive in, in a bronze car like the one he'd seen him with after that drugs raid. He'd watched him park it near the gates, and along with a tall dark-haired man, climb out and disappear into the building at the other end of the yard.

An idea came to him. He pulled out the cheap notebook in which he'd been scribbling all the information he had collected. He thought long and hard before writing a few words on the bit of paper.

Bodie and Doyle strolled into Headquarters, made their way upstairs, and handed in their report on the stake-out that had kept them busy all day. It had been interesting, for quite a few people had visited the little shop, some they knew and some they didn't. They had handed over to the night-watch team, and would most likely resume tomorrow.

"What are you up to this evening ?," Doyle asked his friend as they left the office.

"Aha," said Bodie, "I've got a special date lined up, - a friend of Susie's. First time, but it could be good."

He threw a sly grin at his mate, as he anticipated an adventurous evening. "And you ?," he asked.

"I'm going to stay on for a bit," replied Doyle. "There's one or two names I want to look up in Records."

"Conscientious little soul, aren't you ?," teased Bodie in a mocking tone, as they parted company.

Brenda stood up from her desk and stretched lazily. Those final reports had taken a bit of concentrated effort, but they were finished at last. She would soon be off-duty, and she was looking forward to a quiet night in with her flatmate. She strolled over to the window, and looked out over the parked cars below. It had been very busy earlier but now half the cars had gone.

Suddenly something caught her eye, and she was instantly alert, watching carefully. Then she shot to the phone and made an internal call. It was to Records, and a familiar voice answered.

"Ray !," she said urgently. "Your car ? It's the bronze Capri up near the gate, isn't it ?."

"Yes," replied Doyle, "It was crowded when I came in. I couldn't get any closer. Why ?,"

"I've just seen a little urchin sticking a note under your windscreen wipers," she said. "But Boardman was just coming in, and he caught him. They're probably both down at the entrance now."

"Thanks, Brenda," said Doyle. "I'll get down there straight away."

He hurried down to the front hall. The doorman was there, pushing the door closed behind Boardman and his captive. Boardman was a big man, taller and even heavier than Bodie. So he easily maintained his grip on the struggling lad held in his large hands.

Doyle came hurrying down the stairs and came towards them. "Let him go, Boardman," he ordered quietly.

Released, the boy gave himself a shake and took a quick glimpse about him. He could see no way of escape. The door was shut, and two men stood between him and it, and one was 'as big as a house'.

Doyle squatted down a little to be on more of an eye-level with the scared-looking boy. He looked about ten years old, but he could be more – he was thin and wiry and poorly dressed.

"What's your name, boy ?" Doyle asked gently.

The boy looked warily at the man in front of him. With his dark curly hair and his friendly smile, he wasn't as scary as the big man who had caught him.

"It's Billy," he said at last.

"Well, Billy, what have you been up to ?," asked Doyle.

"I ain't done nothing," said the boy defensively.

"What about this ?," demanded Boardman, waving the note he'd brought in with him. He handed it to Doyle, who didn't immediately read it, preferring to keep eye contact with the lad before him.

"S'only a note," said Billy grumpily.

"I know," said Doyle calmly, "and somebody gave you money to put it on my car, didn't they ?."

"Yes," admitted Billy. "Gave me a quid, he did."

Relieved at the friendly way this man was talking to him, he opened up and issued a torrent of words. "Said he was an old friend of yours, who'd been away for a long while, and he wanted to give you a surprise by setting up a secret meeting," he blurted out.

"And what was this man like, Billy ?," asked Doyle.

Billy was now in a quandary, remembering what the man had said to him. They might catch you, he'd said, and then they'll ask about me. It'll spoil the surprise if you tell them what I look like. So say this instead. Billy thought about it. Perhaps meeting up with this friend would be a nice surprise for the friendly curly-haired man in front of him. So he said what he'd been told to say.

"He was a little chap, with ginger hair," he lied firmly.

Corrigan had been clever. He'd suggested the description he had been given of Smut, Doyle's informant, as he was hoping Doyle would think the note was from him.

Just at that moment, the outer door was flung open and two agents entered, attracting the attention of the others.

Billy grabbed his chance. Moving with the skill and long practice of evading being caught by his step-father, he ran round the big man, and was out of the door in a flash, and haring up the yard.

Boardman let out a curse, and started after him, but Doyle stopped him.

"Let him go, Boardman," he said. "He was only a messenger boy. I think he's told us all he knows."

He glanced down at the note in his hand, and read it quickly. It was a bit of a scribble, and said

'_Must see you. Important. Renton Street, market end. 9 o'clock tonight. S.'_

Doyle frowned at the note. He didn't recognise the hand-writing, but then Smut had never written to him before. The description did sound like him, and Renton Street, close to the market, was one of Smut's regular haunts. He'd better keep the appointment and find out what he wanted.

Corrigan watched from his vantage point. He was very pleased when he saw the big man catch the boy, and haul him into the building. Now the lad would say what he'd told him to say. Doyle would believe him and keep the appointment.. He was totally confident now that his plan would work, and hurried away to make the final arrangements.

Doyle tucked the note into his pocket, without showing it to any of the others, and walked up the stairs with Boardman. It was too late now to go back to his flat. He finished off the work he had been doing, and went to the rest room. He made himself a cup of coffee, and ate the sandwiches he'd brought in earlier. A proper meal would have to wait. Then he set off towards the market where Smut wanted to meet him.

Meanwhile Corrigan had been busy. There were two things he wanted to complete his plan, and he knew just where to get them. The first was transport, but he'd already solved that. In the mornings when he left the hostel, he passed a small blue van. It belonged to an odd-job man, who lived a few doors down. As he'd walked past, and watched the man putting his gear for the day's work into it, he'd seen that it would suit him very well. It had all he needed, tools, bits of wood and some coils of rope. He'd also seen it parked there at night, and with his old but not-forgotten skills, it would be easy to lift.

The second thing might not be so easy, - a stray dog !

But he'd seen them skulking round the closed-up market, scavenging for scraps, so it might not be too difficult.

Doyle parked his car half-way up Renton Street, and walked back in the direction of the corner that was one of Smut's favourite places. He glanced at his watch. It was almost 9 o'clock, but so far there was no sign of the little man.

He was passing an alley, when he heard an unusual sound. It was a dog whimpering. He glanced into the alley, and just made out a half-starved looking mongrel tied to a railing a few yards in.

Then the dog gave a pained yelp, thanks to a well-directed stone thrown by Corrigan hiding in a doorway. And then another, - a real sound of pain.

Doyle turned and hurried into the alley towards the animal, bending down to see what was wrong with it.

"What's up, boy ?," he said, extending a cautious, friendly hand.

Corrigan wielded the lump of wood very effectively, and his victim folded to the hard ground, and lay still. Quickly he moved out of the shadows and rolled the limp form over. Yes, he was out cold !

He released the dog, who fled as fast as he could run, still trailing the cord that had tethered him.

Corrigan heaved Doyle's form over his shoulder, and hurried to the van parked just out of sight at the end of the alley. He opened it up, thrust his victim in, climbed in after him and pulled the doors shut behind them.

He was exultant now. He'd done it ! He'd caught the man he was after. That was probably the hardest part done. Now he had to get him where he wanted him, but that was all planned. The next step was to tie him up, before he came round, and he had the rope that belonged to the workman all ready. He reached for the length he had cut, and quickly whipped it round the slim ankles.

As he did so, he was gloating. He was going to get his revenge ! The man who had caused his mother's death by taking Benny from her, would die cold and alone as he mother had. There had been nobody to bring her coal for her fire.

That gave him a sudden thought. Why shouldn't he be cold too ?. He flipped his captive over, undid the long zip on his jacket, and dragged it off him.

He was a bit surprised to find that the man was wearing a gun in a shoulder holster. He'd thought C.I 5 men were just glorified police, and police in Britain generally didn't carry guns.

He pulled that off too, and looked at it with interest. Maybe he could sell it, and the jacket. He'd heard that guns cost a lot of money. Then he had second thoughts. Better not. If a gun came up for sale, questions would be asked, and he didn't want to arouse any attention. So he chucked both items into the back of the van among the various tools, and got on with the task of binding the man's hands behind him. A knotted rag, torn from one of the workman's paint cloths made a very efficient gag.

Now he was ready. He got out of the van, locked the doors, and climbed into the driver's seat. He drove carefully through the dark streets till he found a convenient parking-place, near the end of the rows of condemned flats, and well out of sight of any residential buildings.

He opened the doors of the van, and looked at his captive. His eyes were shut and he was still unconscious.

Corrigan grabbed the tools he wanted, a torch, a hammer and chisel and a pair of heavy-duty wire-cutters. The workman had really supplied all his needs. He pulled the van doors shut and re-locked them.

He made his way to a part of the wire fence that was well out of sight of any casual passer-by, and got to work. It took him a little while, but he eventually had made a sizeable gap in the wire fence, big enough for him to get through easily. He slipped into the compound, and made his way to the particular block of flats that he was interested in. The hammer and chisel made short work of the padlock on the door, and any noise he might have made was muffled by the stone porch of the entrance way.

Taking the torch from his pocket, he quickly climbed up the stairs. He halted for a moment to lay his hand on the locked door of the flat that had been his mother's, and it served to increase his determination to see this through.

He carried on climbing till he reached the sixth floor. There he encountered a door leading out onto the roof. Another padlock was quickly disposed of, and then it only remained to draw back the heavy bolts at the top and bottom of the solid wooden door. He climbed out and looked about him, eyeing the expanse of flat roof eagerly, in the pale moonlight.

Doyle awoke in pitch darkness, and with a terrible headache. He attempted to move, and immediately discovered that he was tightly bound and gagged. He tried moving about, and was puzzled by the sounds that caused. It sounded like tools or something similar clanking together. He struggled to remember just what had happened. He'd come to Renton Street in response to the note from Smut. Then what ? Oh, yes, the dog ! He'd heard it yelping and had gone to investigate. He realised, too late, that it had been a clever trick designed to catch him off guard. And he had fallen for it, he thought disgustedly.

Just then, the doors of the van were pulled open, and the figure of a man was silhouetted against the light of a nearby street lamp. Doyle looked at him closely but did not recognise him. Why had this man abducted him ?

Corrigan threw the tools he no longer needed into the back of the van, retaining only the torch. He used the light of this to untie the cord round Doyle's ankles. Then he hauled him from the van, and steadied him onto his feet. With one hand hard on his arm, he moved Doyle away from the vehicle. With the other hand he closed and locked the doors, slipping the key into his pocket.

Then he began to push his captive along the road. Gagged as he was, Doyle was unable to communicate with his captor, - had no way to ask who he was or what he wanted. Corrigan pushed him roughly along till they came to the gap he had made in the wire fence, and forced him through. Then he drove him over towards the building looming before them. Doyle had neither the time nor sufficient light to see what it was. At first the entrance seemed as if it might be a house, but as this gave onto a flight of stone stairs, he realised it must be flats, and as they mounted one flight after another, he could tell it must be a fair-sized block.

Then they stopped outside a door, and the man spoke to him for the first time, as he laid his hand almost lovingly on the door panel.

"I'm Joe Corrigan," he informed Doyle. "And this is where I lived most of my life. It's where my little brother Benny was born and grew up. It's where my mother died of a broken heart, when you arrested Benny and dragged him away from her."

Now Doyle knew who his attacker was. The man not long released from prison, clearly the older brother of that nasty little thug, Benny Corrigan.

Doyle was surprised, not so much by the name, but more by the intense hatred in the man's voice.

True, he had arrested Benny, and along with several other officers, had manhandled him out of the flat and down to a waiting police car, totally ignoring, as they had to, the mother's wails and protests.

But surely that didn't make him responsible for her ?

"You killed her," went on Corrigan bitterly. "She died here in this building, cold and alone, and you're going to do the same !"

He started to move again, pushing Doyle on up the stairs before him. He was still talking in a mad obsessive way.

"These flats are finished, you know," he said, "In a few days time there's going to be a big bang, and they'll all fall down into just a heap of rubble. And you'll be with it," he almost shouted triumphantly.

Doyle's heart quailed. The man was mad, surely ! But it sounded as if he was going to leave him up on the roof.

They reached the top flight. Corrigan pushed open the door and shoved Doyle through. He followed him out to deliver his final diatribe.

"I'm going to leave you as you are," he announced, "so you won't be able to attract anyone's attention. I'll leave your legs free. That won't help you at all, though you could always decide to jump off, if you like. We are six storeys up, so the result would be the same. I don't care."

He gave Doyle a sudden push, which sent him sprawling on the hard tarmac. Doyle heard the slam as the heavy door was pushed back into place, the sound of the big bolts being pushed across, and faint footsteps dying away.

With his hands tied behind him, it was rather an awkward scramble to get back to his feet, but he managed it at last, and stood looking about him in the moonlight. He was on the flat roof of the block of flats, a considerable expanse of tarmac, broken only by a couple of chimney-stacks, (the flats were old and had had open fires), and the block that housed the roof-access door. He took a walk round, being careful not to go too near the edge, for there was no protective parapet.

His thoughts were racing. He was in serious trouble this time. He realised, somewhat late in the day, that no-one knew where he had gone. He hadn't shown the note to Boardman or the others, and hadn't discussed his plans at all. When he was missed eventually, questions would be asked, but they wouldn't know the answers.

His car would be found, locked, in Renton Street, but that wouldn't be any help either, as it would give no clue to what had happened. He wasn't sure where this lot of condemned buildings were, but it was nowhere near Renton Street, he was sure of that.

What could he do now ? He could try to shift the ropes that bound him. Perhaps he could fray them up against the brickwork of the chimney-stacks. He moved over to the nearest one, backed up against it, and began to rub the rope against the bricks. He worked hard at it for some moments. Then he realised, to his dismay, that he wasn't getting anywhere. The cord binding him, the handyman's special, was smooth and strong, maybe even with a metal core. The only thing that was giving way, was the old weathered brickwork. It was crumbling away under his hands.

Very disappointed, he moved to sit down for a bit, resting his back against the useless structure, trying hard to think again. Perhaps it was the late hour, the bang on the head, or maybe the effort of trying to free himself, but he felt himself beginning to doze.

Bodie sauntered into Headquarters, greeted the doorman cheerfully, and then bounded up the stairs two at a time. He was in a particularly good mood, and even the prospect of another boring day at the stake-out couldn't spoil it. Last night's date had been very special !

He entered the duty-room, faintly surprised not to find his partner already there. He was often in before him. As he had expected, looking at the duty-rota, they were down for another stint of duty at the same stakeout. Oh well, he could put up with that, for if he were bored, he could always dream of last night, and Liselle.

When he was still waiting, ten minutes later, he was mildly annoyed. Doyle was rarely late. Then he remembered that he had said he was going to work late, looking up something in Records. Perhaps he had overslept !

The idea of teasing his mate about that appealed to him, and he smiled to himself as he called his number. It rang for a while but there was no reply. Disappointed, he assumed he must be on his way, and called the car number. It also rang, but elicited no response.

This was a bit odd, wasn't it ?

He left the room and wandered along to see who was on the switchboard. It was Molly, a friendly sensible girl.

"Has Doyle called in this morning ?," he asked.

"No, should he have done ?," replied Molly.

"He doesn't seem to be answering his phone," said Bodie, a faint niggle of concern beginning to cross his mind.

"I'll try," volunteered Molly, and proceeded to do so. She tried, in turn, Doyle's home phone, his radio-phone, and the car-phone, and received no response from any of them. She turned a worried face to Bodie.

"Do you think something's happened to him ?," she asked.

"I'm going to find out," said Bodie. He thanked her, and strode off. He went first to the door of Cowley's office, tapped and was called in. His boss gave him a slightly puzzled look, as he came purposefully towards him.

"Sir," said Bodie urgently, "Have you sent Doyle somewhere ?."

Cowley was surprised, but replied instantly. "No, I haven't," he said,. "Why ?"

"I can't raise him, sir," replied Bodie. "Not on any phone."

"And you're concerned ?," queried Cowley.

"Yes," said Bodie. He decided to come clean, and quickly told his boss about the warning words from Smut, and the odd sighting after the drugs raid.

Cowley was furious. "I should have been told about this before," he exclaimed angrily. "Any threat to any of our men should be investigated."

"It was all so vague," said Bodie. "We didn't take it seriously."

"You may well live to regret that !," snapped Cowley. He was feeling in a drawer of his desk as he spoke, found what he wanted, and handed Bodie a key.

"Emergency key to Doyle's flat," he said. Then as Bodie hesitated, he added fiercely "Why are you still here ?."

Bodie shot out of the door, and was on his way as fast as he could move. He raced through the streets to his mate's flat, and went in. But he really need not have hurried, for he learned absolutely nothing. Doyle's place was neat and tidy, with no sign of any trouble. But neither was there anything which could have told him that Doyle hadn't been home all night.

Reluctantly, he locked the place up again, and went back to report to his boss, and to return the key. "I couldn't see anything unusual," he said, "But his car isn't there."

"We'll get an A.P.B. out on that," said Cowley briskly. "Now, do you know of anything he was working on, apart from the stake-out ?."

"No," replied Bodie slowly, "Though he did say he was going to look up a couple of names in Records. Maybe he's gone after them."

"Go and see if anyone in Records knows who he was checking on," ordered Cowley.

Bodie went off quickly, glad to be doing something. It made him feel less useless. But this task proved equally unproductive. Doyle had been alone in the room, so no-one could tell him which names his partner had been looking up.

This failure set the pattern for Bodie's whole day. Pulled off other work, he went from one place to another, trying everyone that he thought might know where Doyle had gone, but met with no success anywhere.

Late afternoon, he returned to report to Cowley again. He'd barely entered the office, when there was a tap at the door. He went to open it, and found Boardman, an agent he didn't really care for. The man pushed past him rather rudely, and approached Cowley.

"Sir," he said, "I've just heard that Doyle appears to be missing. I thought I'd better come and tell you what happened last evening."

Bodie and Cowley were instantly alert, and listened eagerly as Boardman told of the lad who'd delivered the note to Doyle.

"He didn't show me the note," said Boardman, "but by what the boy said, he knew who it was from. A little man with ginger hair, he described him. It sounds like that informant Doyle sometimes uses. I've forgotten his name."

"Smut," supplied Bodie instantly, and Boardman nodded.

"He didn't tell us what he was going to do," went on the big man, "but perhaps he went to meet him somewhere."

"Well done, Boardman," said Cowley. "That might be very useful. We've no other leads."

Boardman left, feeling quite pleased with himself. Agents didn't always get on well with each other, witness himself and Bodie, but Doyle was liked by most, and if he was in trouble, and he'd helped find him, he was pleased. As he went, he passed one of the office girls hurrying by with a slip of paper in her hand. She entered Cowley's office and handed it to him.

Bodie was preparing to leave, to go to find Smut, but Cowley called him back. "They've found Doyle's car," he informed Bodie, "Parked in Renton Street."

"That's Smut's favourite area," exclaimed Bodie. "It sounds as if Doyle did go to meet him."

"So where is he now ?," mused Cowley.

"I'll track down Smut, and find out," said Bodie grimly.

"Take any help you need," ordered Cowley.

Doyle's car was recovered and brought into the yard, but there was nothing about it to give them any help.. The only find was Doyle's radio-phone, switched off and tucked away in the glove compartment. It's usually me that does that kind of thing, thought Bodie.

He and several others worked late into the evening trying to find Smut, but with no success. Eventually, they packed it in for the night, arranging to start again in the morning.

Bodie was on the job as early as was reasonable, but although he and others searched all day, and asked innumerable questions, they couldn't find the little man anywhere.

The truth was that Smut was in hiding, he didn't want to be found. He'd been having some trouble with a couple of bully-boys, who resented the fact that he was an informant. So he'd been laying low for a couple of days in a squat that none of his acquaintances knew about. He'd taken some food in with him, but now he'd run out. Tomorrow, he'd have to risk a quick trip to the market.

He'd sneaked out quite early, and had got all he wanted. He was congratulating himself that he'd managed it, and was skulking back towards his hideaway, when suddenly a heavy hand grabbed his shoulder. He let out a startled squeak, but when he was swung round to face his captor, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. B.," he said. "You scared the life out of me."

"Why ?," asked Bodie, "Guilty conscience, Smut ?."

He gave the little man a shake. "Where's Doyle ?," he demanded. The little man looked at him blankly.

"What are you on about, Mr. B.?," he said.

"The note you sent him, asking him to meet you," exclaimed Bodie.

"What note, Mr.B.," said Smut in a puzzled voice. "I didn't send a note."

"I've witnesses," responded Bodie grimly.

"It wasn't me," protested Smut. Then he hung his head and looked a bit uncomfortable. "Truth is, Mr. B.," he whispered. "I can't neither read nor write."

Bodie stared at the little man and suddenly realised he was telling the truth, which led him to a nasty conclusion. The note hadn't come from Smut. It had been a trick of some sort, evidently designed to catch Doyle.

Then he remembered something. "Smut," he said urgently, "That man you told us about - the one who was asking about Doyle ?."

"I haven't heard any more about him," said Smut. "I think he must have stopped."

This was true, of course. Corrigan had stopped, but only because he'd already got his answers.

"Has something happened to Mr. D. ?," asked Smut anxiously.

"Yes, Smut, I'm very much afraid so," replied Bodie. "He's been missing for a couple of days - we can't find any trace of him."

The little man looked really upset. "I'll ask about, Mr. B.," he said earnestly, "but I don't know anything about it, honestly, I don't."

Bodie left him and walked back to his car. He felt very deflated. He'd been clinging to the hope that when he found Smut, he would get a definite lead, but it was obvious the little man knew nothing. One unpleasant thought was becoming clear in his mind. Whoever had taken so much trouble to trap his partner, their intentions towards him were very unlikely to be friendly !

Where was Doyle ? What had happened to him ? Was he still alive ?

Reaching his car, he climbed in and set off back to base. Cowley would not be pleased with his report. He hadn't gone far when his car phone sounded. It was his boss. He pulled into the side of the road, and swiftly and succinctly told him about his futile encounter with Smut.

Cowley listened but made no comment. Over the phone it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. If Bodie had actually been with him, he might have read something in his expression. Cowley was indeed not happy. He had a feeling that it looked as if they'd lost Doyle. Would that mean losing Bodie, too ? He rather thought so. The pair had achieved a special kind of rapport in the time they'd been together.

But he had something for Bodie to do, so he quickly got to the point. "Bodie," he said, "Do you know a place called Wilson's Wood, in Newham ?"

"I could find it," replied Bodie, sounding puzzled, "Why ?"

"There's a van there you need to look at," was Cowley's only reply. He rang off quickly. He wasn't going to tell his man yet, what the police had just reported. They had found a little blue van, abandoned amongst the trees. Its owner had reported his loss, and the number-plate had confirmed his ownership. Because he had said it was full of valuable tools, the police had picked him up, along with his spare key, to come and check whether anything was missing. But, instead, they had found something added, articles that had prompted immediate contact with C.I.5.

It didn't sound to Cowley like good news !

Bodie altered his route, and made his way through Tower Hamlets to Newham. A few enquiries soon brought him to the right place. He pulled up alongside the parked police car, climbed out, and identified himself to the Inspector who stepped forward to meet him. The man led him towards the little blue van. There were several policemen around it, one, including one in the cab, dusting the steering-wheel, and other controls in the hope of finding helpful prints. The back doors were wide open. Realising the significance of what they had found, the police had replaced the other articles exactly as they had found them, in case that would supply any useful clues.

Bodie looked in, seeing first the various tools lying on the floor of the vehicle. Then his eye caught something else, and he climbed in to look at it. It was a tan leather jacket, and a very familiar-looking one. He picked it up and reached into the inside pocket. As he expected his fingers closed over a small leather wallet. He pulled it out, and stared at it. Doyle's I.D. cards !

Moving the jacket had disclosed the other articles that had so disturbed the officers who had found the van – a shoulder holster and a gun !

Bodie felt sick inside. No wonder Cowley hadn't told him what he would find !

He'd have known the effect it would have on him. Here was undeniable proof that Doyle was in trouble, and that something serious had happened to him.

Vaguely aware that the inspector was talking to him, he endeavoured to drive the numb feeling from his mind, and to pay attention to what the man was saying. The inspector was assuring him that if they found anything of interest, finger-prints, maybe, they would let C.I.5 know at once. Bodie thanked him, signed a receipt, and carried his finds back to the car. He drove back towards base mechanically, his mind racing over possibilities. But although they now knew where Doyle had been, in the blue van, there was not the slightest clue as to where he was now.

As the morning sun began to warm the air, Doyle stirred, stretched his cramped legs to ease them, and tried to force his mind to work properly. Whether the cold nights were to blame, the hunger and thirst he was feeling, or the blow on the head he'd received earlier, he had become very disorientated, and thinking was becoming more and more difficult.

He did know where he was, helpless on the flat roof of a building, soon to be demolished ! Corrigan had said 'in a few days'. How long had he been here ? Was it two days, three or more ?

It must happen soon, surely. What would it be like ? A nasty thought panicked him. Suppose he wasn't killed outright, but lay dying for days, covered with dust and broken bricks.

Perhaps it would be better to jump, - that at least would be quick. And his body would be found, not left to rot amid the rubble.

He tried hard to drive those thoughts from his mind as he scrambled to his feet, ready to spend another day as before, wandering round the roof, hoping against hope that someone would look upward and spot him. But no-one came up this end of the compound. He could see the workmen at the far end, four or five blocks away, tiny figures moving about, and their big equipment looking so like children's toys.

Constable Holden was a newcomer to the local police station, but he was settling in well. This last week it had been his turn to walk the night-beat, and he'd taken advantage of the opportunity to widen his knowledge of the area. He'd made a point of varying his patrol every night, by taking a different route, thus finding out where all the little lanes and alleys connected. He'd found nothing very unusual.

But last night had been different. He'd come down a long narrow alley, to find himself, much nearer than he'd expected to be, to the wire fence surrounding the blocks of flats due to be demolished. Well, he thought, if I walk down beside the fence, I shall come to streets I'm more familiar with.

But then he'd found something surprising. Someone had cut a huge hole in the fence ! The loose section had been roughly pushed back into place, but it was not secure. He must inform the site manager. He glanced at his watch. It was nearing the end of his shift. By the time he'd walked all the way down to the site office at the far end of the compound, it would surely be nearly time for Browning, the site manager, to come on duty, to open up for the workmen. So he set off in that direction.

Doyle was doing as he had done in the days before, wandering round his flat-roof prison, and looking down to the far end where there was some activity. He moved aimlessly about, gazing in that direction.

Then he gave a sudden start, and became more alert. What was this ? There were two figures coming this way, walking up the rough ground of the compound. He stared at them, hardly believing his eyes. Yes, they were getting nearer. How could he attract their attention ?

Then suddenly, he had an idea. Moving one foot against the other, he pushed off the ankle boots he was wearing. Cautiously, he toed them towards the edge of the roof. This took a little while, and when he looked again, the two men he'd spotted were almost level with the building he was on.

He tried hard to concentrate, to work out distance, strength of the breeze etc. Then with a despairing effort, he lashed out and kicked one of the boots over the edge. He watched it fall, and could have wept at the disappointment, for it was not accurate enough. It had landed behind the moving men, falling into a patch of weeds, so it did not even make a sound to alert them.

But the men had not come into the building. They had walked further on. Why ? There was nothing there but the end of the fencing, as his was the last block in the row.

His hopes rose again. Surely, they must come back. A few moments passed, and then he saw them again. They were returning.

This time, he gave all the thought he could muster to getting it right. He had realised that it was his last chance. If he missed again, they would be gone, out of reach.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, and kicked the remaining boot, watching anxiously as it sailed through the air. This time, luck was with him. The flying boot caught the site-manager a glancing blow on the shoulder. Startled, the man let out a yell, and grabbed the arm of the constable. They both looked to see what had hit him, and then turned their gaze upwards.

"Look," exclaimed Constable Holden, "There's a man up there, on the roof."

"What on earth's he doing there ?," gasped Browning, the site-manager.

He turned and began to run towards the entrance porch, the policeman close behind him. They quickly discovered the broken padlock, pulled open the door, and hurried up the stone stairs. Reaching the top, together they pulled back the heavy bolts on the roof-access door, and threw it open.

Constable Holden was first through, and was amazed to see a figure stumbling towards him. He moved quickly, and was just in time to catch the man, as he collapsed and fell into his joined him, and together they eased the inert form to the tarmac, crouching beside him.

It was then that they saw more clearly the state he was in.

"He's tied up," gasped the older man.

"Yes," said the alert young policeman, "And you know what that means ! This wasn't an accident. It's attempted murder !"

He looked at the astonished site-manager, and immediately took charge. "I'll call my station," he said, pulling out his radio-phone, "and get them to call an ambulance. And C.I.D," he added as an afterthought.

"What shall I do ?," asked Browning, willing to help.

"Go down and get the main gates open," instructed the constable, "and direct the ambulance here when it arrives."

The man nodded and got up to leave.

"Don't mention this to anyone," ordered Holden, pointing to the bound hands "This is a police matter."

The site-manager went clattering down the stairs as fast as he could. He was very puzzled. How had the man got up there ? He and his men had done numerous safety checks as they had completed the work on each block. He didn't want to think that it might have been a failure on their part.

Constable Holden made his calls, stressing the urgency, and then turned his attention to the man lying so still before him. He slipped off his greatcoat, and tucked it round the still form. He looked at the bonds round the wrists, but they had dug into the skin, and he could see that he couldn't release them, but he had been able to ease the gagging rag from the victim's mouth. But as yet, the man showed no signs of returning consciousness.

Who was he, he wondered, and how long had he been up here ? Still, he thought, those were questions that C.I.D. must find the answers to, plus the vital one. Who had put him there ?

It seemed ages before he heard the sound of an engine, complaining as it was driven over the rough ground. He went cautiously to look over the side. Yes, there was the ambulance, and a police car, too. Soon he heard feet pounding up the stairs, and suddenly the roof-top was swarming with people.

He rescued his greatcoat, and went to talk to his inspector, telling him how he had found the gap in the fence, gone to alert the site-manager, and had come with him to have a look. And then he related the surprising events that had followed.

Meanwhile the ambulance men had been proceeding with their usual efficient care. They'd taken one look at the injured wrists, and decided that that was a hospital job. So they'd wrapped their patient in a warm blanket, lying him carefully on his side. They had secured him with the safety straps, and were now carrying him carefully down the six flights of stone stairs, and into the waiting ambulance. They then sped off to the nearest hospital, Vale, to hand him into proper medical care. They were closely followed by an Inspector Davis, who had rolled up in his car just as they were leaving. He had questions needing answers, and would stay at the hospital till he got them.

Doyle woke slowly. For the moment, he had no idea where he was, but he was warm and comfortable, so he relaxed and enjoyed the feeling.

Then he remembered !

His hands were now free, with feeling back in them, so he pulled them out from under the covers. His wrists were neatly bandaged, and felt a bit sore, and he could feel some sort of dressing on the back of his head.

A nurse popped her head round the door. Seeing he was awake, she hurried in. She took a cup from the side table, gently lifted his head, and helped him drink. He thanked her, surprised at the weakness of his voice.

"To save you asking," said the nurse brightly, "You're in Vale Hospital." She smiled at him. "Now, do you have a name, young man ?," she asked.

Doyle returned her smile, warmed by her friendly manner. "Yes," he replied, "It's Ray Doyle."

"Well, ," she said, "There's a policeman waiting to talk to you. Do you feel up to it ?."

He nodded. She went to the door and ushered in a middle-aged man, not a policeman he knew.

"Inspector Davis," the man introduced himself. "Now, young man, I have a few questions for you."

Doyle held up a hand, stopping the man. "First, Inspector," he said, "I need you to make a phone call for me. My name's Ray Doyle, and I'm C.I.5."

The man looked astonished, but replied quickly. "We've been looking for you for days," he exclaimed.

Cowley put the phone down, hurried to open his door, and then called down the passage. Bodie heard his summons, and shot out of the rest room. He'd only just got in after a morning's fruitless round of visits to people who might know something.

"Bodie," said Cowley swiftly, "Doyle's been found. He's in Vale Hospital."

"Is he hurt ?," asked Bodie.

"I've no details," snapped Cowley, "Go and find out."

Bodie didn't need telling twice. He abandoned the coffee he'd just made for himself, and shot off. Very soon he was at his mate's bedside, relieved to find he was not badly hurt, and along with Inspector Davis, was hearing the whole story of what had happened. Both listened very intently, and were staggered by what they heard.

"We need to get this man," said the Inspector. "He's not rational."

Then Doyle asked a question. "Do you know when the flats are due to be demolished ?," he queried.

Bodie didn't know, but the inspector did. "Tomorrow morning," he said, "People like to watch, so they do it on a Saturday. 10 am tomorrow."

"You've got to be there, Bodie," said Doyle urgently. "They won't discharge me yet."

"Why must I ?," asked Bodie, not understanding.

"Because Corrigan will be there, to gloat," explained Doyle, "and you got a look at him, that day after the drugs raid. You'll recognise him, won't you ?"

"Yes, I think I would," replied Bodie, his face brightening, "And I'd certainly like to be the one to catch him !"

So the next morning found Bodie, backed by Murphy and Jax, special friends who'd asked to be included, plus several policemen in plain clothes, mingling as unobtrusively as they could with the crowds lining the wire fence. A great many people had gathered to watch the spectacle, including lots of parents, badgered into it by eager and demanding offspring.

Bodie was scanning the crowds very carefully, and his diligence was rewarded. He spotted Corrigan. He alerted Murphy and Jax, and pointed the man out to them.

"Shall we take him now ?," asked Jax eagerly. The story of Doyle's ordeal had quickly spread round C.I.5, and many would have liked the chance to make sure the man responsible didn't get away with it.

"No," said Bodie, "I want to do it myself, but after the big bang."

The others understood, knowing how Bodie felt about his partner.

So they waited, spreading out a little, so that there would be no chance of Corrigan escaping them. They gradually edged nearer, without being too obvious,

10 o'clock came, and right on time, the site manager pressed the button. There was a ripple of explosions, and one by one, the five blocks of old flats descended amid clouds of dust, and subsided into rubble. There was a burst of applause, and a cheer from the younger members of the crowd. They had all enjoyed the spectacle.

So had Corrigan ! He stood for a moment, an expression of gloating on his face. He was so sure he'd done it, - he'd avenged his mother !

He turned to go, but suddenly in front of him was a tall, dark-haired man. His expression was hard to read, but he didn't look friendly. The man spoke softly.

"He wasn't there, Corrigan," he said, "We found him yesterday."

The defeated look on the man's face gave Bodie a great deal of satisfaction. But he got even more from the swinging right upper-cut he landed as the man attempted to run. Corrigan staggered backwards, and was almost immediately grabbed by the hovering policemen, and hustled away.

Later that afternoon, Bodie sauntered into Vale, swinging a carrier bag. He went to Doyle's room, and found his partner sitting on his bed, dressed again in the sweat shirt and jeans he'd been wearing when he was found, now washed and returned to him.

"They've agreed to discharge you," said Bodie, "as long as you're under our doctor's care."

He grinned cheerfully, quite himself again now that the nightmare of the last few days was over. "Ready to go, mate ?," he said.

"Not quite," replied Doyle. "I haven't got any shoes."

"Sorted," said Bodie, fishing in the carrier bag. "The men on the site found them for you."

He produced the missing boots, and Doyle gratefully slipped them on. They were his favourites, and he'd quite thought he'd lost them.

"And I've brought your jacket, too," said Bodie. "See how I look after you."

Feeling much more himself again, Doyle thanked the hospital staff for their care, and followed his mate down to the entrance, and out to the car.

"How would you like a detour ?," suggested Bodie as he opened the door for him, "We could go and have a look at those piles of rubble. They're quite impressive."

"Most definitely not !," responded Doyle. He didn't need reminding about the narrow escape he had had this time.


End file.
